" "To be sure he is," acquiesced Blueskin. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless. The boss says to me: 'Higg, here's a guy we want back. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid.
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